


Clear the Wreckage

by wynnebat



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mages' Side, Post-Break Up, Post-Game, Viscount!Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're on the helm of a stolen ship, staring at fires raging in the city, and no one's hand is on the wheel. Eventually, Hawke says what's on their minds: "We can't just leave Kirkwall like this."</p><p>(Or, Hawke & company become Kirkwall's benevolent dictators.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear the Wreckage

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Jack's Mannequin's The Resolution, which you should totally [listen to while reading the fic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3UgGe50SbeI). 
> 
> All my thanks to Trickster_Angel, without whose encouragement I would still be looking for viscount!Hawke fics instead of writing my own.

They're on the helm of a stolen ship, staring at fires raging in the city, and no one's hand is on the wheel. Eventually, Hawke says what's on their minds: "We can't just leave Kirkwall like this." He says it determinedly, but with a great sigh. He's exhausted and his body is one big bruise and only steps away are cots to fall into. This isn't the right time for his conscience to speak up. But, "It's going to become another Tevinter."

If it doesn't burn down first, that is. Hawke can't take his eyes off the flames that have spread from the chantry area to the rest of Hightown, licking building after building until it becomes aglow. At the very least, Hawke thinks, they need to go back to douse the fires. They can leave afterwards, slip away into the night, their consciences cleared.

Merrill is first to agree. "Or worse, another Circle will step in."

"There's nothing worse than Tevinter," Fenris says, his scowl touched by tiredness. It's a circular argument that won't resolve itself tonight; even Fenris has trouble managing routine scorn after killing dozens of people. "The chantry can take this place; all seven years we've been here, it's been on the verge of war or warring. It's cursed."

"It could be taken by the templars once again, or maybe the Divine, once the Grand Cathedral hears of what happened," Bethany adds. She's standing next to Hawke, their shoulders touching armored plate to mage's robe, neither able to part for very long. Not after the years Bethany had spent in the Circle. In a long-suffering (even though she hasn't done it in so long that there's almost no suffering to find) tone, she adds, "It's really not so bad. And everyone who wanted to leave has already left with their phylacteries destroyed."

"To cause havoc for the rest of the world," Fenris reminds them.

Hawke glances at Anders, who's sitting on the edge of the boat. Instead of shooting a retort, Anders simply stares at the wide ocean expanse. A part of him is glad for Anders' uncharacteristic hesitance, because Hawke knows that right now, he can't deal with Anders. Hawke can barely look at him, and there's a stone in his throat named betrayal. He knows that to some extent it's Justice who's at fault or dissymmetry in Anders' mind or fervent mania or _something_ , but that doesn't change the fact that there are dead bodies burned to a crisp in a place that's not meant to be a battlefield. It only adds to the weight on Hawke's shoulders. He should've known.

He's always thought of himself as a dutiful man: a dutiful brother, son, friend. A Champion of a city that's become his home. And a lover to the man who blew a hole right through its chantry and lit the city ablaze, and there's so much shame and hurt and anger in his heart that he can barely breathe through it. (That, or just smoke from the fires.)

Hawke is not a religious man; he's scorned the chantry, he's liberated its slaves, he's never asked for a blessing (at least when he's been in a chantry without his mother). And yet, there is something sacred in a place where widows grieve and young boys cry quiet tears for men the chantry would've hated. More than that, there is nothing good in people burned for a cause they didn't believe in, didn't agree to.

When he senses Hawke staring at him, Anders glances back and says, "I hope they all got away alright."

It's second nature for Hawke to comfort him, to say, "I'm sure they have." They're strong and capable—and they're filled with purpose. He refuses to think about what their purpose is, now that he's seen what Anders has done.

By the time he turns back to the group, Isabela is saying, "Oh, forget the mages and the templars for a second, will you? Sheesh. They can deal with their own mess later."

"That's the spirit," Varric agrees. "I'm sure they can put out their fires later, too, and heal the casualties once they regroup in a few weeks' time."

Isabela crosses her arms. "We'll be slaughtered if we return. Do you remember the little detail of _one of us blowing up a chantry_ , by chance?"

"Our help won't be accepted," Fenris says. "Even if the regular citizens aren't aware yet—"

"They'll accept any help they can get," Aveline counters. "Especially if they're hurt and need medical attention. We have a healer; the best in the city. Who are they going to go to, now that most of the mages have left? If they want aid, they'll deal with it."

"You can't possibly be suggesting we forgive the abomination for—"

"I want to help," Anders cuts in, talking to Fenris but staring into Hawke's eyes. "Please. If you wouldn't kill me, then use me. It will be... justice."

"This is suicide," Isabela says. But with a sigh, she relents. "But I suppose our lives can't be complete without the possibility of being lynched by a mob of angry Andrastians."

"I could make it up to you," Bethany says.

"Really?" She turns a speculative eye on Bethany.

Hawke places one gloved, blood-speckled hand on his sister's shoulder. But he shouldn't have worried; Bethany's next words are, "I've been told my cookies are to die for. Now that I can finally make them again, you can have all the sugar cookies you desire."

Isabela sighs. "I'll take them. Hawke, if you're offering anything to sweeten the madness...?"

"The goodwill of the city isn't enough?" Aveline asks. Beside her, Donnic snorts.

"Enough," Hawke finally says, and all eyes turn toward him. "I'm not going to force anyone to stay." He couldn't, anyway, and wouldn't.

But Isabela says, "Don't be ridiculous. We're with you," and adds with a small smile, "though I would like to be buried with a bottle of fine mead."

"I'd be happy to drown you in one," Aveline mutters. Her words are bellied by how hard the two of them have tried to Keep the other alive over the years. To have someone to argue with and despair over, if nothing else.

Hawke cuts whatever words Isabela's leering expression indicates, saying, "Alright, first off: Anders, where's the rest of your lyrium?" Because he knows Anders, and Anders is nothing if not methodical when it comes to mages' rights. He would've had a back-up plan.

Anders startles, and guiltily replies, "I have... several stashes in the Viscount's Keep."

"Oh, sweet Andraste, you've got to be kidding me," Varric groans. "Were you just planning to blow up the whole city?"

"There is also some in my clinic. And I'm sure the templars and mages at the gallows have a large supply."

"The city guard also has a few canisters," Donnic adds.

Hawke nods. After a moment's thought (and really, it doesn't take much—after years of fighting together, Hawke knows his team's strengths as well as his own), he says, "Aveline, Donnic: rally the city guards. I want them to maintain order as much as possible. See if you can get any templars on board, so that they aren't causing trouble elsewhere. Merrill, Varric: you take Hightown, use all the water and ice spells you have, raid Anders' lyrium stashes if you need to." It's the region that's affected the worst; they'll need all the lyrium they can get. "Isabela, Fenris, Bethany: take Lowtown and the docks. See if you can organize people to bring water from the sea, make sure the mages weren't detained at the port, and the alienage isn't overlooked. Join up with Merrill and Varric as soon as you can. Anders: come with me. We'll set up a healing tent in the Keep. The rest of you can direct anyone who's injured there. Don't stop to heal anyone—you'll run out of mana too quickly."

"And after?" Bethany asks.

"We'll meet at my estate."

He could've said, "We'll meet on the ship."

It would've been just as easy to say, "We'll meet on the coast."

But he's made his choice, and by the way Varric eyes him thoughtfully, at least some of his companions understand. Through hell and high water—Hawke is staying.

.

Without adrenaline clouding his senses and blood spatters tainting his vision, Hawke is free to see the ghastly effects of the fight between mages and templars. There are corpses strewn through the streets: templars frozen or burned, mages impaled, civilians caught between two sides who should've known better. Hawke clenches his teeth, but he can't get far enough away from the crackle of fire and the yelling all around them. By the time they reach the Keep, they've cut down three abominations and stunned one distraught chantry sister.

These people don't want them anymore, that much is clear. Hawke's ardent supporters, the mages, are gone, on their way to spread their cause, and those that are left will only see the damage he's caused. He knows he can easily relinquish this duty, can take leave from their anger and pain and a child's yell of hatred as he cries for his mother. It would be so easy.

"Listen up," Hawke calls instead, because he's never been good at making good choices. He stands on the steps to the Keep and looks out at the people who've been burned out of their homes, and maybe, he understands Anders' duty to his cause. "I know I'm the last person you want to see—"

"You're right!" someone yells.

"—but you took me on as your Champion three years ago," Hawke says. "And you've trusted me this far. Trust me in this, when I say I'll do all I can for you." His heart is pounding from the force of his promise, and absurdly, he remembers Flemeth's words. If there are few things in this world stronger than a promise kept, then this promise will bind him as tightly as a city of chains ever could. "We'll heal as many of you as we can. But to do that, I'll need some volunteers."

It's not much, but the people take it, because it's all anyone has to give. Hawke gets his volunteers. He sends the youths to grab supplies from Anders' clinic, and Keeps the adults with medical knowledge to make splints and administer tonics. These people are from rival gangs and classes and races, but as an order begins to shine through the chaos, they're only Kirkwallers in need of aid.

"Tell me what to do," he says to Anders, and trusts him at least in this.

"I've been waiting ages to hear that from you," Anders quips. He's in his element, magic sizzling in the air as he begins to work.

They fall into a rhythm as Hawke brings out the lyrium stash, creates makeshift healing stations, and Keeps an eye on Anders' health. It stings, like salt on a gaping wound, the way he and Anders can still seamlessly work together. One night doesn't cancel out years of working and fighting alongside one another, and Hawke needs Anders' skills too much to wish it had.

Eventually, Anders admits, "I'll need help. It's not that I lack lyrium—I have enough of it to, well—"

"I suppose _to blow up a chantry_ would be in bad taste," Hawke says with a heavy sigh. It's almost like old times.

One of the people next to them takes a sharp breath.

"Yes," Anders says, his mouth wry. "I can't be the only mage in the city."

"I'm on it," Hawke replies. He's halfway across the square before an offended citizen can round on him.

He finds Bethany on the run from an enraged mob of civilians, and Isabela and Fenris chasing the same mob. In between dousing fires and buttressing falling buildings, Hawke's friends rescued four former Circle mages who'd gotten caught in their escape; it hadn't been a popular move. It's a half hour until they can untangle themselves and finish their tasks, and when they finally make it back to the Keep, Anders' relief is plain, his exhaustion almost heartbreaking.

.

In the early hours of the morning, Hawke's entire company stumbles into the Hawke estate. It's miraculously unharmed, having been just far enough away from the blast. Hawke has never been so happy to walk through his home's doorway. They're bruised and bloodied, and Orana is quick to pull people into showers and clean clothes, unheeding of but's and no's as she throws their gory weapons into a bin. Hawke readily falls into her capable hands. Dog helps by almost knocking them over, though Hawke is sure he means well.

When Hawke is clean and clothed in something that isn't soaked in other people's blood, he makes his way into the study, where the rest of his friends have already gathered. Isabela lies across one sofa, her head in Fenris' lap. And though Fenris is scowling, his hand rests on her shoulder. Merrill, Varric, and Anders have taken up the other couch, while Aveline and Donnic curl into a loveseat. Bethany pats a section of the loveseat next to her, and Hawke collapses into it. Someone passes him something edible, hot and aromatic and—he wonders who had time to make stew when the world was busy falling into chaos.

"Looks like we weren't mobbed too badly," he says. "No one's grievously injured? Dead?" He'd feign counting heads, but the tiredness is bone-deep, dragging him down from making light of things.

"Blondie's doing a good impression of a zombie," Varric says.

"I'm not," Anders moans hoarsely, his head resting on the back of the sofa. "Sort of." He's overdone himself in his repentance, that much is clear, but Hawke can't berate him. They've all gone too far, tonight.

A part of him wants to leave the looming conversation until morning; the rest of him says, "So, about leaving..."

"Finally going to tell us about your plans, Hawke?" Varric asks, his voice amused.

"I do like plans," Merrill says. "We didn't have one before, after all. Not a _real_ one."

"I'm going to stay in Kirkwall." Hawke quirks a smile at how no one's even surprised. "What gave it away?"

"The speech you made was particularly rousing," Anders offers.

"The bull-headed determination," Fenris says.

The others offer a thousand little quirks, and this time, Hawke has enough energy for a wounded expression.

"I suppose I wouldn't mind staying in the city I've made my home for the past six years," Aveline says, a touch of irony in her tone. "Especially since I've only recently whipped the Guard into shape. They'll fall apart without me."

Hawke shakes his head. "You don't have to stay. Any of you. If you don't want to. I know it's a lot to ask, and we'll have the templars on our backs soon enough. We'll just be sitting ducks here. I'd leave if I could."

"Lies," Isabela says, and she's right. Hawke can't see himself leaving.

"We're not going to just leave you. It would be silly." Merrill's eyes are bright as lyrium.

"But you _could_ —"

"Hawke, stop being an idiot," Aveline says. Other than Bethany, she's sitting closest to him, and she says quietly, in a voice just for him, "You're not turning my pages, Hawke. It's all me."

He's not turning anyone's pages, Hawke realizes as he looks over his group. They've all got a reason to stay; even if for some that reason is another one of his friends.

But it's not that simple, when it comes to some people.

"What about me?" Anders asks.

Hawke turns to his former lover, and his voice has no room for kindness as he says, "You should leave. Today, if possible."

"And if I wish to stay with you? To rebuild the city? To atone?"

Hawke has always had the capacity for aggression, even if he's always chosen to be kind. But now that the high of working together has passed, Anders' betrayal is on the forefront of his thoughts, and he says, "You don't want to blow up the rest of the chantries in Thedas?"

"No. I've done all I can. I want to stay. With you." Hawke's eyes close, just for a moment, in the face of the love in Anders' eyes. Anders loves him; he's never doubted it. But as he'd said in the gallows when they'd broken up, he simply loved the plight of mages more.

But maybe, this time, it could work.

But that's a lie, one that Hawke can't swallow. He doubts he could trust Anders again; he doubts he can trust anyone the same way once more. The trust he'd given his companions has been earned back thousands of times over, but Hawke has none to spare for anyone else. Not even Anders, who'd once been so close to his heart.

Scowling, Fenris says to Anders, "You'll help his cause more if you stay. Better that everyone sees you humbled and repentant than on the loose by Hawke's hand. Of course, you'd help even more by being dead."

Dead, Anders is a misguided fool, his mind toyed with by a demon. Alive, he's a stark reminder of just how dangerous mages can be.

"You won't be trusted by many in the city. And I don't know if I can protect you from everyone who's out for your blood," Hawke says.

"I'd still like to stay... I won't do well, on my own, with just Justice as my companion," Anders says, and Hawke remembers Anders' willingness to die, sees the way his eyes have lost their light. It's all suddenly too much.

Hawke gives a small nod. The conversation is finished.

Or at least theirs is, because all around Hawke, conversations go on, muted to his ears. At some point, his head falls onto Bethany's shoulder as he lets everyone's voices wash over him.

 _It won't last,_ Hawke thinks as he takes pleasure at his friends and family together once more. _Good things never do._ Isabela would never stand for being tied down to Kirkwall so thoroughly. Varric once told him of idle dreams of seeing Orzammar at some point in his life. Fenris said he might join him, in between killing slavers up and down the coast. Merrill wants to embark an a journey in the Fade, and will do it despite the rest of the group's fearful disapproval. There will be templars on their backs and the Divine's only one determined march away. The city's coffers are nearly empty after too long without proper management and its people are rowdy and uncertain. But right now, he'll take this fragile peace.

It's not until Isabela asks, "Do you have a plan other than just staying?" that he remembers how much more there's left to do to even arrive at that future.

"I'd planned on drinking quite a bit, too." Yawning, Hawke tries to remember his vague plans.

"You'll need to do something about Cullen," Aveline muses.

"I never thought you had it in you," Fenris says, almost smiling.

"What—? I didn't mean that! I'm not saying we should assassinate him, for the Maker's sake. Enough people have died tonight." She stops. "Sorry, Anders."

"It's alright. I'm well aware."

There's a lull in the conversation; Hawke thinks about getting Dog to do a trick. He's gotten quite good at the old steal someone's shoe right off their foot routine.

Instead, Varric asks, "So, who's going to be the viscount?" He says it easily, like it hasn't been asked every day since the Arishok killed Viscount Dumar. "If we're going to do this, we need to do it right, and we need to do it fast. Get one of our own sitting there in the big chair, nice and pretty."

"Aveline?" Hawke tries.

Aveline raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm going to be captain of the guard. I'd go insane if I tried to do both."

"Varric?"

"Hell no."

"Merrill?"

"I don't think they would accept me. I wouldn't accept them right back, though."

"Fenris—"

"My usual strategy of solving problems is shoving my hand through their chest."

"Bethany?"

"I didn't mind being in the Circle. If we're really staying, I want to help the mages that didn't like it as well as I did. And the ones who never went and were never trained. I can't focus on it if I have to deal with the rest of the city, too."

"Isabela, I give you the city. It's yours."

"No thanks."

"...Donnic?"

"My place is at Aveline's side." His words lead to a gushy, heartfelt stare between the two.

Hawke swallows, but there's one more member of the group, and, "Anders? Feel like continuing your revolution more respectably?"

"I think you'd do much better than I would," Anders replies, and it hurts.

With a sigh, Hawke says, "Viscount Hawke," trying out the words. They leave a strange taste in his mouth. He's never lusted for power; perhaps if he had, he would be more prepared for the words and the duties he'll assume to make Kirkwall into a city he can be proud of.

"Not bad," Isabela says.

"Not bad at all," Aveline agrees. "It took me a while to get used to 'Captain'. But you'll get there."

Later, as they begin to part into the various beds and couches of the Hawke estate, Aveline adds, "If anything... you can use the fact that Viscount Dumar had considered you as a possible heir."

"Of all the blasted people, why me?" He couldn't remember the man ever letting on to enjoying his company, let alone declaring him fit for his job.

"Because you didn't want the job, and yet you tried to save the city from time and again. He was outvoted, of course, but it's in the council record. And Cullen will remember; Meredith raised quite the fuss about it."

"Thanks, Aveline."

She smiles. "Thank _you_ , Hawke. I'm glad we're staying. I would've gone with you—I'd follow you anywhere, and you know it—but I'm glad."

"I am, too," he replies, and he means it. It's not much of a duty, to stay in the house he'd made his own and take a stand. He's not made to be a man on the run; he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life fighting, fleeing, hiding. All his secrets are out; his sister is no longer an apostate, his former lover will always be known in the city's walls, the ghosts from his friends' pasts have all turned up.

If it all goes wrong... At least he'll know he stood his ground.

.

Kirkwall is unbelievably defenseless, Hawke realizes as he walks through its streets early the next morning. Its Circle is shattered, its Guard is weakened, its chantry is destroyed, and its leadership is dead. Its people are scattered and shaken and hurt. There's only one thing in Hawke's way.

He's not stopped as he enters the gallows; the surviving templars' stares are heavy on his back, but they make no moves against him. Hawke wonders is it's the effect of Cullen bending his knee—which will not be forgotten, not anytime soon—or of the viscount's robes hanging openly over his armor and the Circlet resting on his head.

He finds Cullen sitting behind the desk of the Knight Commander, penning a letter.

Cullen looks up, freezing as he sees Hawke in his doorway. "Hawke," he says, his voice strained. There's a curl in his lip as he says, "I should've known you wouldn't get out of my hair."

"That's me," Hawke says. "I live to be a bother."

"Clearly." Cullen tries to smooth out his brow, and Hawke takes the moment to sit down in the chair across from his desk. The last time he was here, Meredith threatened Anders' life. This time, well. This time they're both threats to one another. "What are you _doing_ here?"

There's a sarcastic remark on Hawke's tongue, but he swallows it down. Cullen looks stressed enough as it is. "I'm going to clean up my mess. And I'm hoping you'll help me."

"You're insane."

"I think insanity might just be a requirement of Kirkwall leadership," Hawke replies. He's not as insane as Meredith was; that has to count for something. "Besides, the other contenders for the spot aren't exactly shining, either."

"The other 'contenders' are the templar order when word of what happens gets out," Cullen replies. "They'll be able to set the city to rights."

"Set it back to how it was?" Hawke asks. "I think that anyone who's been in the templars that long knows that the system is broken. You've seen mages beaten and brought back in chains when they only wanted freedom. You've seen them made tranquil at the drop of a coin. You've—"

"I've also seen my Circle destroyed by abominations and my friends killed by blood mages, back in Ferelden," Cullen reminds. "Are you saying there's a better way?"

"I'm saying I can find one. Give me time, and I'll find a compromise that doesn't involve death or total absence of rights. Stay, and I'll listen to your words. I won't discount your fears. This city will be one of templars and mages—properly."

There's a pause that rests in the air, until Cullen says, "Are you truly so certain that I will not turn on you? I'm a templar to my bones."

"Yes," Hawke replies.

"And if I asked you to rebuild the chantry?"

"I'll do it. It won't be the chantry as it was—I won't stand for oppression of mages. But it can still be something beautiful without that."

Cullen takes a deep breath. For a second, he looks a little like Anders, all blonde and tired and righteous, and Hawke's heart skips a beat before it settles. When he's made up his mind, Cullen says, "I'm going to get fired for this."

"Tell the Divine you're just Keeping an eye on me."

Cullen snorts. "Sure. I can see that going over well. But... you have one year. If this city hasn't shaped up by the end of it, I'll take over. By force if I have to."

"I'll hold you to it," Hawke promises.

He makes more concessions before the meeting is through. Big ones, small ones, ones he knows will sting in the future. But he leaves the gallows with Cullen by his side and the templars who choose to join this new, splintered order behind them. The rest are directed to the docks, where they'll leave for Val Royeaux with a letter signed by Viscount Hawke and Knight Commander Cullen.

When they arrive at the steps of the Keep, Hawke's companions are already waiting, along with a crowd of people at the foot of the steps. There's crying children and bloodied faces and no one has gotten a full night's sleep. The people fall back as Hawke makes his way through, and fall silent as he stands to face them, Cullen to his left and Aveline to his right. The rest of Hawke's allies crowd behind them, a united if skeletal front against the sudden flood of expectation. This is it: this is Hawke's army, and it's only a hundred strong. A hundred battle-worn templars or city guards or mages or warriors or beautiful pirates, but still only a hundred. If the crowd wanted to, it could still storm them and resist this friendly occupation.

There is a crown on his head and a scepter in his hands, but all he can feel is powerless against the tide.

"Citizens of Kirkwall!" Hawke yells. He should've prepared a speech, because the words that leave his mouth are, "Knight Commander Merideth is dead. First Enchanter Orsino is also dead." Both were slain by my hand, he doesn't say, but it's obvious to anyone with half a brain. "And the viscount's seat has been empty for years, after he'd been slayed by the Arishok." It hadn't been Hawke's fault; for years he'd thought otherwise. Now, with the city on his shoulders, he didn't have room for misplaced guilt. "Former Knight Captain, now Knight Commander, Cullen stands beside me, as do the former Circle's mages as I ask you to accept me as your new viscount. For good or ill, the path of our city has changed. And just as I've stood by it by as its Champion, I'll lead it into a new day as its viscount."

Before everything, he was well liked in the city, and not just because he was the Champion, but because for seven years, when people needed someone to help a child lost in the fade or a man hunted by his former king, his first words were, _how can I help?_ He knows that these people will accept him again, eventually. But he might not even get the chance to prove himself.

There's a moment when Hawke is sure the people will turn on him. He already sees himself being taken off the platform in chains, Cullen's "I told you so," in his ear.

The worst does not occur. The best does. A wave of clapping and cheering begins from a point in the middle, and Hawke can't see who starts it. He wonders for a second if it's one of Varric's people, or Isabela's, or Aveline's, because could it truly be just a person who still believes in him?

 _I wish you could've seen this, Mother._ And Carver, well. Carver would've seethed with jealousy and booed from far enough away that Bethany couldn't shoot a spell at him. But later, Carver might have bought him a drink and toasted to Hawke trying to be less of an idiot in the future. Hawke would've given this crown twice over to bring them back.

He almost doesn't notice a ringing yell of, "Die, monsters!" from somewhere on his left. By the time he begins to unsheathe his sword—dimly thinking that this must've been the shortest reign of a Kirkwall viscount—the dissenter is already impaled on Fenris' fist. Fenris throws the man's heart down the steps, and it leaves spatters of blood as the crowd tries to move out of the way. The tail end of the applause is weak, and the cheers have a somewhat nervous tone underneath.

Hawke stands tall and doesn't flinch and wonders if this is what the Arishok felt: a conqueror standing over his new city. How soon would another warrior come to take him down? The afternoon sunlight paints him and his companions golden, but Hawke doubts the history books will do the same.

Eventually, the crowds disperse, and there's a somber peace in the air.

"What now?" Varric asks. He's never been one to let Hawke brood.

Hawke shrugs. "The Hanged Man's probably open."

It is a ragtag group of people that makes its way into a barely open tavern: a viscount, a man with strange tattoos, a Circle mage, an apostate, a traitor, two guards, a storyteller, a pirate, and a templar. But whether the city likes it or not, they're there to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Clear the Wreckage [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696297) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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